Hundred-Yard Dash
by TheRealMcbasilrocks
Summary: Flash, Flash. Fastest sloth at the DMV. But 'fast' is such a relative term, isn't it? This comedic oneshot follows everybody's favourite three-toed bandito going about his daily routine and misadventures, leading up to his encounter with Judy and Nick in the movie. Think of it as the prologue you never knew you wanted. Mostly tongue-in-cheek, with a little pathos here and there.
_I think we can probably all agree that the breakout character of Zootopia was undeniably Flash the sloth. Well, to me, anyway. So it's such a shame that he doesn't seem to get much love around here. The place is swarming with Judy/Nick stories, which is great and all, but I just figured a couple of other characters could do with some attention, and hey, to quote Sebastian, if you want something done, you gotta do it yourself._

 _Heads-up; I've never,_ never _written a fanfiction before. Then again, I don't think I've ever been as enamoured by any animated movie in recent years as much as Zootopia, so what better place to start, amirite? This is not supposed to be taken seriously, or to be interpreted as having any deeper thematic/emotional meaning in any way. It's just a relatively brief, lighthearted, comedic one-shot that I might – operative word there being_ might _– build up a larger plot around if it takes off. Don't wanna count my chickens, though._

 _Anyway, enjoy. Author out._

 ** _I don't own Zootopia. That much should be obvious._**

* * *

Zootopia. A place where, supposedly, anyone can be anything. And yet most of its citizens found it difficult, on this bright Monday morning, to imagine themselves as being anything other than busy. The hectic hustle-and-bustle of the early morning rush-hour, which saw commuters from Tundratown to the Nocturnal District all crammed unceremoniously into bottleneck after bottleneck, was tempered only slightly by the pleasant, mild weather. Anyone who wasn't driving was walking - and hurriedly at that - to work, and anyone who wasn't doing either of those things was, quite frankly, probably unemployed.

And yet, the rapid pace of this typical landscape belied the true conflict now occurring within the city limits.

Beep. _Beep_. _**Beeeeeep**_.

Slow as molasses, two orblike eyes slowly revealed themselves from beneath crusty eyelids, admitting daylight. Flash blinked for a while, at his naturally glacial rate, before turning his attention to the insistent, but equally slow, buzzing of his alarm clock. _Just… five… more… minutes_ , he thought to himself, unhurriedly pressing down the snooze button. About to roll back over, Flash instead found himself becoming inexorably occupied with a piece of lint that had deigned to gather on his three-toed bedside table. He'd never admit it to anyone, but behind closed doors he was something of a clean freak. Groggily, he flicked - well, nudged would be a more accurate description – at it a few times until it had tumbled off the surface (out of sight, out of mind, after all) and Flash turned his interest once more to slumber.

Steadily, his eyes closed, until: _**beep.**_

Well, there went the five minutes.

"You… know you're… bored… when… flicking a… lint ball… becomes… all-consuming," he muttered to himself. He was tempted to hit the snooze bar again, but his ruthless optimism and tireless pluck motivated him to very deliberately extract himself from the sheets.

Well, that and the promise of coffee. He'd stop off at Snarlbucks on the way to the DMV. Flash gradually inclined his head to check the leopard-spotted clock on his wall which, helpfully, was about the only thing in his apartment that kept correct time, himself included.

Good, it was early. It shouldn't take him more than 3 hours to get ready. He might even be at work on time today. A first.

* * *

 **3 HOURS AND 32 MINUTES LATER**

Mentally cursing himself for missing his target time by such a trivial half-an-hour, Flash stepped out of his apartment and headed carefully downstairs to street level. It was at this point he realised he'd forgotten to lock his door. His now-present cheer not faltering, the sloth simply rolled his eyes, chuckled, and slowly began the arduous journey back upstairs. All 24 flights of them. Ah, the conveniences of living in a penthouse apartment. Without a functioning elevator.

An inordinate amount of time later, having firmly secured his residence, Flash was distinctly beginning to feel the lethargic effects of caffeine deficiency, which was saying something for someone of his… velocity. More impelled than ever to reach Snarlbucks before collapsing in a gelatinous heap, he unlocked his striking red roadster and settled into the driver's seat at a comfortable pace.

Turning the ignition key, and wincing slightly, he interminably lowered his clawed foot to the oversized pedal. Mentally, he prepared himself for the inevitable. _Please…. don't… happen…. again -_

 _ **SCREEEEEE- CRUNCH**_

"Dammit, Flash!"

It had happened again.

Owing to his slow application of the gas, the sleek vehicle had jolted forward and bashed rather forcefully into the dishevelled car parked in front, which by now bore several dents; evidence of the numerous times this had occurred already. Almost every day of the week since Flash bought the dragster, in fact. And now his neighbour, a middle-aged lynx named Reggie, had taken to rounding on him every time his battered old jalopy was rammed. The sloth could hardly see the point in his complaining anymore, since the rustbucket barely ran as it was – admittedly probably his own doing – but, being a kind soul, he usually just grinned and bore it. This morning, though, he really wasn't in the mood. He turned his head towards the advancing predator.

Reggie tapped his index claw frustratedly on the dragster's window, and, after waiting 20 seconds or so for it to be lowered, ripped loose.

"Flash, I don't know how much more of this I can take. It's gonna drive me crazy. In fact, no, it's done that already. Look, I'm moulting from the stress." He pulled a few clumps from his ruff to prove the point. "Yeah, it's driven me crazy, so next it'll probably, I dunno… make me physically ill or something. Kill me, hopefully. Whatever. The point is, every freakin' morning I get out of bed, probably way earlier than you do, feelin' pretty good about myself. Say hello to the wife and kids. Then I come out front and tend my garden. It's the only thing making me happy these days, Flash! And then I see _you_. You plodding outta that door, and every time I pray to whatever apathetic force is up there cruelly managing my pathetic life that you won't go ramming your _stupid_ 15,000 horsepower deathmobile up the poor defenceless exhaust of my car. But you always do! I don't know why I think that it'll ever change, maybe it's the insanity taking hold. I just… why? I mean, d'you have anything to say for yourself?"

Flash sat sombrely. He _really_ didn't need this right now. Eventually, he began delivering his standard response. "Reggie… I… am… extremely- "

"-sorry? You say this every-"

"- apologetic… and… remorseful for… my- "

Reggie put his head in his hands. He _really_ didn't need this right now.

"- actions."

A pause.

"You done?"

Another pause.

"…yes."

"Well, slowpoke, it's all very well that you're _sorry_ , but that doesn't change the fact that I'm pretty sure the insurance company is starting to think I'm running some kind of money laundering scheme, with all the claims I've been making! Five times!"

He held up his hand to show the number, disregarding the fact that he only had four fingers on each paw.

" _Five times_ you've smashed into my car this week, Flash! It has to stop!"

A brief moment of silence. Then, gradually, Flash raised one clawed hand. Reggie simply stared, then narrowed his eyes in rage as the sloth leisurely lifted up a single claw which, while difficult to tell, was almost unmistakably supposed to resemble a middle finger.

"What is this- oh, so you're flipping me off now? Well, screw you too! _You're_ the jerk that owes me damages for my- "

"One."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Another of Flash's four claws slowly went up. "Two."

Reggie backed down sheepishly. "Oh, you're.. you're counting. Well- "

"Three." Another claw.

The snark returned. "Alright, great. Big help. Why don't you give us a little vampire laugh while you're at it, huh? I don't have time for-"

"Four." The final claw was raised. "Four…times… Reggie. Not…five."

Reggie was dumbstruck. "…please don't tell me you're now debating the frequency of your screw-ups."

Flash _flash_ ed a toothy, but sincere grin. "I sure…am."

Reggie looked him up and down for a while, eyeing him sharply, then rubbed his temples wearily. "You know what? I don't care. Just… go to work. My days are numbered, Flash. I got better things to do than stand here and chew you out. I'm warning you, though. You batter my car anymore and you might just find the odd mysterious crowbar-shaped dent in yours. Oh, and another thing; when I go in to dinner later with the family, this _will_ be discussed."

That hurt Flash a little. He hated being talked about behind closed doors, and his neighbour knew it was an easy way to strike a nerve and make a point. He didn't let it show, though, and after bidding Reggie adieu with a lazy wave – earning him a snort of derision – he shifted his foot to the reverse pedal. The effect was startlingly immediate. The dragster shot backwards, this time whacking the decidedly more expensive car parked behind.

"Flash, are you _serious_?!"

A nasally voice cried this out as Flash spied his other next door neighbour, an elderly elephant, descending the steps of his front porch angrily. Lethargically, the sloth closed his eyes and breathed deeply. This could take a while.

* * *

 **1 HOUR LATER**

Having finally dispatched all protesters, Flash was now comfortably on his way to Snarlbucks – a moderate driving pace he achieved by only slightly compressing the accelerator – and was soon pulling up in the coffee shop's lot, inadvertently occupying two spaces due to a botched parking job. Sometimes he even wondered himself whether he was fit to work at the Department of Mammal Vehicles.

Several heads turned as he entered through the automatic glass doors of the establishment. Those belonging to patrons gave a cursory glance, then swivelled back round; however, the two employees behind the serving counter, a rabbit and a deer, had locked onto him with an expression that one could only really truthfully describe as sheer terror.

The deer turned to his associate, whispering furiously. "Oh _, hell_. It's Flash. Hide the pastries. Hide them _now_." His partner complied, sweeping armfuls of buns into a burlap sack; an act observed with great curiosity by Flash. "We gotta make his order as short as possible. I don't wanna _die_ talking to a _marsupial_."

Taking a break from dragging the sack away, the bunny co-worker looked at him in disappointment. "Actually, sloths aren't marsupials. They're a member of a subdivision genus incorporating clawed mammals like armadillos and anteaters."

Flash was minutes from the counter. "Did I ask for a biology lesson?"

"Hey, we don't use that word around here."

"Lesson?"

"Biology."

"You'll live, I'm sure. Now destroy those buns in any way possible. Leave no trace behind."

"This is a coffee shop, not a nuclear plant, what d'you expect me to do, blow them-"

"Good… morning… Finn."

The rabbit excused himself. The deer, Finn, checked his watch, seeing that it was actually 13:11, but forced a friendly smile to Flash all the same.

"G'day, Flash. It's…" he gulped, "it's good to see ya. Can I take your _drink_ order?" He emphasised the word _drink_ , hoping that it might work as some kind of subconscious programming on Flash. He'd seen his favourite television hypnotist, Deeren Brown, use it once to swindle someone out of their race winnings.

"Sure." He motioned towards the empty pastry shelves. "What's… with… the…"

Finn desperately tried to divert the sloth's attention. "Coffee, is that it? The _coffee_ sure is nice today. All brown and hot and _caffeinated_ -"

"-sack… of… cakes?"

 _Darn. He'd seen it._

"Oh, erm… health scare! That's it, yeah. Health inspector was here earlier, found traces of…er… Nighthowler in the pastries. Gotta quarantine the whole lot. Heh. _None for you_."

Finn hadn't realised that he'd accidentally delivered this blatant lie too convincingly and, unfortunately, loudly, since at his words several customers had dropped their newly-purchased baked goods in horror and fled the store. The rabbit, having overheard this, called out from the back room.

" _Way to go, Finn. You're knockin' 'em_ dead."

Finn hurriedly tried to perform a verbal backspace on Flash. "Not… not that you shouldn't eat here in the _future_. I mean, it's not safe _now_ , but tomorrow, who knows?"

Excruciating silence.

"I mean; it could be _safe_ tomorrow. Not that it could be _worse_. I mean, it's not like there could be, I dunno, _cyanide_ in them tomorrow or anything. _Ha, ha, ha_! Totally fine."

An audible sigh from the back room. Flash gave Finn his best approximation of a withering stare.

"Finn… are… you… feeling… OK?"

"Fine! Yep, totally alright. A-OK. _Moi est bonne_!"

From the back: " _You can't speak French, Finn!_ "

" _Shut up_!" Flash looked alarmed. Finn inhaled sharply. "Look… dude, can you just order a coffee or something and leave? I need some time to rethink my career choices."

"No… problem. One… latte… with… extra… milk- "

Finn rang it through as fast as humanly possible. "So, the usual. Figures- "

"-please."

The deer attempted a warm smile, but it came across more like a leer.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, Finn stood alone behind the counter of the now-abandoned Snarlbucks, having watched Flash thank him and leisurely plod out the door. His co-worker slowly came up behind him and clapped him on the back.

"Great work today, buddy. You really cleaned up. Or should that be cleaned _out_?" He snickered. "The place, I mean."

"Har-dee-har. Everybody's a comedian." Finn blinked exhaustedly. "I thought you were destroying the evidence."

"I did."

"How?"

"Tactical waste extirpation."

"You threw them in the trash can."

"I threw them in the trash can."

The bunny's ears drooped. This was _not_ how he thought this day was gonna go.

* * *

Unaware of the severe mental and emotional stress he had just wreaked, Flash drove cheerily onwards, sipping his latte en route to work. It wouldn't be long now. Just as long as he didn't get caught up in –

"Traffic backed up as far as the eye can see!" boomed Zootopia FM. "From Sahara Square to Savannah Central, it's a real logjam out there!"

Flash resisted the urge to throw his latte out the window in frustration, reasoning that it wouldn't get very far with his slower-than-average pitching technique. Almost prophetically, within minutes the radio's declaration came to pass, and the sloth found himself sandwiched at a standstill between vehicles and animals of all shapes and sizes. On any other day, he'd have optimistically taken the opportunity to admire the diversity of the city and examine the sights and intricacies around him, but all the pent-up frustration and exasperation from the day was too much.

This was the final straw.

In a move which might have been considered dramatic if performed by any other creature, but simply looked comical in Flash's case, the sloth lowered his head to the steering wheel and bashed his head against it in aggravation, producing a sustained, loud beep from the already jacked-up car horn. Every animal in a 10-metre radius nearly jumped out of their fur at the sudden noise, and one particularly anxious female sheep in a car adjacent to Flash's looked over, saw the sloth, eyes closed and faceplanted against the wheel, and immediately assumed the worst. Picking up her iWool, she dialled 911.

 **MEANWHILE, AT THE ZPD**

Having just finished polishing off a donut, Benjamin Clawhauser wearily picked up the reception telephone, which had just begun ringing. Considering that the past five calls had been from her, he automatically presumed it was:

"Mrs. Otterton? I've told you, I'm really sorry, but we're doing everything we can. Officer Hopps is on the case, you saw that yourself, right?" The kindly cheetah tried to calm the worried spouse he thought was on the other end.

"What are you talking about? My name is Ms. Shears, and I'm calling from within the traffic jam in Savannah Central which, I'd like to point out, your men are doing nothing about."

Clawhauser, in his loveable naiveté, totally missed this unsubtle jab at the ZPD.

"Oh. Well, what's the problem? Sorry, I just kind of assumed-"

"There's a driver here who I think has just passed out. Maybe from the heat, might have had a heart attack, I'm not sure. All I know is his head has slumped against the steering wheel."

"Oh. Well, that isn't an issue, Ms. Shears."

"What on earth do you mean? This animal could be in a critical medical condition!"

"Well, first off, we're technically not doctors, ma'am, so if there was a real problem you'd have done better to call the hospital. But anyhoo, luckily this is OK. It's a sloth, right?"

"Well, yes. How did you- "

"Give it a minute."

"Wha- "

Ms. Shears looked over at Flash, who, much to her surprise, soon began raising and lowering his head at a glacial pace, emulating hitting his head against the wheel in irritation. Each hit was accompanied by an annoyingly long beep.

"You're right, he's OK! That's remarkable, how did you know?"

"Oh, that's Flash the sloth. We get the odd call about his weird driving behaviour every once in a while. We know him pretty well by now, but we've never managed to bust him for speeding or joyriding yet. Maybe one day. He's a pretty nice guy, actually. I almost feel kinda bad that we have to keep him in the criminal database." Clawhauser selected his next donut, then realised something. "Actually, if you'll excuse me, Ms. Shears, this reminds me."

The truly bewildered sheep hung up. Never mind the sloth, maybe the heat was getting to _her_.

Clawhauser switched on the intercom and squealed excitedly. "McHorn! Get down here! You gotta pay up! That was our fifth call this month about Flash!"

A few minutes later, a grumpy-looking rhinoceros booted open the bullpen door and reluctantly handed Clawhauser a bunch of five-dollar bills. "I didn't think he'd have been quick enough to meet that benchmark. I failed to take into account that he's probably _weird_ enough to meet it."

Clawhauser chuckled. "You've no idea how many pastries this'll buy me at Snarlbucks."

McHorn smirked. "Ah, well. About that." He booted up his phone and scrolled through to the news app, showing a crestfallen Clawhauser the top headline:

'NIGHTHOWLER EPIDEMIC SHUTTERS COFFEE CHAIN.'

* * *

 **ONE HOUR LATER**

Finally, the traffic dispersed, and Flash cheered up a little on the final stretch to the DMV. He always enjoyed this part as it took him past Little Rodentia, a part of the city he'd long found fascinating, with all its colorful plastic tunnels and dinky little skyscrapers. Something seemed a little off about it today, though. All the rodents seemed to be in a mania, and the town's centrepiece, the Big Donut statue, was missing from its plinth. Flash simply chalked it up to renovations. Mice were an overdramatic lot, anyway.

In much better spirits, he and his juggernaut of a car parked in the DMV lot as close to the entrance as possible, and, ensuring the door was locked to avoid a repeat of the morning's incident, Flash headed inside. Awaiting his arrival was his boss, a sour-faced grizzly bear, who was pointedly tapping his watch.

"Well, look who's decided to grace us with his presence. I've had a long enough day as it is, having to deal with the new British recruit. Didn't even know the name of the city! Can you believe that? Kept asking people for directions to 'Zootropolis'."

Flash blinked. He wasn't really sure where this was going. His boss's tone suddenly became infinitely less jovial.

"Do you know what time it is?"

Flash hesitated. "No… sir. I… don't… carry… a-"

"A watch? You'd better get one, 'cause the way things are going you won't be around here long enough to get a gold one on retirement day-"

"-timepiece… or… a… smartphone… featuring... timekeeping… software."

"Can it, Flash. Get _with_ the 21st century, or get _out_ of my company! Is that clear?"

Flash seemed to catch onto something. "Am... I... late?"

The bear looked scandalised, but played his response up sarcastically all the same. "Oh, _no_ , Flash! It's only 3 in the afternoon! By your usual standards, you're on time." He put his muzzle right in the sloth's face. " _Keep it up_." He stormed off.

Flash was crushed. He'd never wanted to do anything more in life than make others happy and contribute to society, despite his limitations. But no-one seemed to be able to look past his slowness.

They viewed it as his one defining characteristic. An irritation. An obstacle. A stereotype, even. In fact, not even _that_ , since stereotypes were often untrue and hurtful. It was a simple fact of his DNA that he had no control over. He felt he shouldn't be stigmatised for it. That was simply unfair.

And yet he dealt with this kind of thing everyday, and even worse, he'd recently gotten the impression that even the police were eyeing him up for his... unorthodox driving expertise.

Suddenly realising he was still holding a half-full cup of lukewarm latte, Flash sighed and moved unhurriedly to his desk. Greeting Priscilla and his other co-workers, he stacked his paperwork for the day in slow-motion, and sat down in the creaky, and frankly quite uncomfortable, chair. He stared blankly down at the glaring database screen in front of him as he poured the remainder of his latte into his favourite 'You Want It When?' mug and slowly took a sip, reflecting on the day's events.

He'd show them one day. Reggie, his boss, and all the others. They'd appreciate him for who he was, not just as an annoying impediment.

Taking another calming sip, and feeling a little better motivated, he reconsidered for a moment. His was hardly a dull lot. He had a steady job which he enjoyed (he still to this day got a kick out of seeing customer's reactions to him), a nice place, and all that. Plus, there was always one person who had been there for him; someone he considered a friend.

Replacing the mug, he turned to his paperwork, when the sounds of a petty squabble attracted his attention. One of the voices was familiar; uncannily, it was the very person he was just thinking of.

Happily, he looked up into the slyly grinning maw of an easily recognisable, and friendly, face.

"Flash, Flash, hundred-yard dash!"

 _Oh... boy. This... should... be... fun._

* * *

 _ **That's the end.**_

 _ **A little anticlimactic, maybe. But I had fun writing it; and yes, I did have to have a thesaurus open next to me while I wrote to come up with some better synonyms for 'slow'. That word... came up a lot.**_

 _ **Reviews are always appreciated! Thanks much!**_


End file.
